The Saga of Ashura

Posted on 11th November 2013

Over 20 million people from all over the world visit Karbala during the month of Muharram. They commemorate the martyrdom of Al Hussain (as), the grandson of the Prophet Mohammad (saw), the rightful, but unfortunately disregarded, leader of his community. Almost 1400 years ago, Hussain ibn Ali (as) was asked to pledge allegiance to the supposed ruler of the time, Yazid ibn Muawiya, the grandson of Abu Sufyan. In a stand of defiance against falsehood, and in an effort to guide the people to the right path, Hussain (as) refused to pledge allegiance to this unjust tyrant. As a result, Yazid formed an army and massacred Hussain (as), his family and his companions in Karbala – the place that Shii Muslims yearn to visit every year.

But it begs to ask the question of why individuals from thousands of miles away would bother to gather in this one place – the place of the martyrdom of Hussain (as). Why do they gather in the shrines, and wail and sob and cry over this tragedy until their eyes run dry? What was the story behind Hussain (as)?

The following paragraphs paint a picture of Hussain (as)'s final moments, thus providing an understanding of his tragedy:

In the scorching deserts, on the arid sands, he called out for someone to aid him. His voice trembled, and there was a deep, nagging feeling of loss in the pits of his heart. He cried out for help – the cry of a father who’d lost his son; an uncle who’d lost his nephew; a brother who’d lost his brother; a friend who'd lost his closest companions. And also in his cry was the terrified understanding of all he was going to lose as he stepped out to the battlefield; the knowledge of the fate of his sister, his heir, and his young children as they would be tied in chains, and dragged on camels through the bitter deserts from Karbala to Kufa to Sham.

Hussain looked right, then left in search of a single soul ready to fight with him. But he had lost all his soldiers. He stood with his arms in the air – reaching out – calling for his Lord to give him the strength to carry on. He was a lone soldier against an army so powerful.

His face turned grave. His eyes looked straight – into the eyes of the thousands of armed warriors thirsty for his blood. He took his six-month old infant to the battlefield to ask for a drop of water to quench his thirst. He placed him on the burning sand. The baby’s tongue emerged, begging for a mere drop. A three-pronged spear came flying from the enemy. It pierced the infant’s throat. Hussain (as) sighed in pain, as though the spear had sliced his throat – as though he wished for the enemy to have spared the baby’s life and taken his instead.

And then he wiped the infant’s pure blood across his own face so pale – for the earth would not grow a single plant with the innocent baby’s blood spread across it, and the sky would not let fall a single drop of rain with the blood spreading with the wind. So on his face he wiped the blood. And on Hussain’s face it would stay – mingled with his own.

And he returned to his camp, after burying his innocent baby in the heat of the desert sand. And he bid farewell to his dear sister. The sister who would have much to face when her brother never returned from battle. She would have her veil snatched, her wrists chained. As would all the women and children. As would Hussein’s heir.

The brother and sister cried for a while. She held onto his horse, afraid of letting go for she did not want to part with her last brother. The battle had taken her sons, her nephews, her other brothers. But this was her last. Hussain was her only hope. But she had to let go. She knew the Message was greater than any bond she shared with him.

And so he left for the field. And the spears were shot. And his body was wounded, inch for inch. Alas, a voice erupted from the skies – O Peaceful Soul. Return to your Lord. Enter into My Paradise.